Inside of My Head
by Green Opus
Summary: It's rather ironic, really. To have everyone tell you that fairy tales don't exist. Especially when you're living your own little fairy tale right then and there. Or... maybe not. A retelling of Beauty and the Beast, complete with irony.


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Title:Inside of My Head

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Author:Green Opus

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E-mail:green_opus2059@hotmail.com 

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Rating:PG-13

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Summary:It's rather ironic, really. To have everyone tell you that fairy tales don't exist. Especially when you're living your own little fairy tale right then and there. Or… maybe not.

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Disclaimer: I suppose that I own pretty much everything. This is a retelling of the ancient tale of the Beauty and the Beast. I am using my own characters, and the events born in my head, all while keeping the same general message, so I guess this is mine. I'm sorry if I'm mistaken, but I think I would also like to continue it to make it more original, and eventually turn it into a whole series! Maybe, maybe not. Don't get your hopes up.

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A/N: Everything I said up there. Plus, I look forward to your enjoyment. And not to mention your feedback too.

Inside of My Head

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Prologue

It's rather ironic, really. I've grown up believing that these fairy tales my mother had been reading to me since the day I was born truly existed, and all of a sudden, on my eleventh birthday, my father so very conveniently tells me that fairy tales are non-existent. 

It doesn't all happen like that. After the family was done with the traditional birthday dinner, complete with, my sister, Charlotte's famous apple pie, she gave me a gift. To be more specific, she gave me a book, a beautiful journal bound in soft brown leather that smelled so sweet. 

"I sent for the paper especially for you, and father bound it. Oh yes, and your sister, Margaret, monogrammed it. We hope you like it, Emilia," she said as she gave me a sincere smile in her clear, sweet voice that I loved to hear.

Indeed, it was monogrammed; it was monogrammed with beautiful golden thread in the shape of my initials: EMA. Emilia Michele Aldaine. It was exquisite, and had embroidery in the corners. So elaborate, I just wanted to throw myself upon Charlotte at that instant.

"Thank you so much, Charlotte! And you and Father!" I had to add that last part or else Margaret would have gone feral on me. I could just imagine all the frustration and patience it took to get the monogram itself done. Not to mention, of course, the continual activity of banging your head on the door nearby.

"You can write all your thoughts on its pages. You could even write about your adventures of finding the sleeping princess from the fairy tales!"

I saw my father jab Charlotte's side as she said this. 

I could hear him whisper as she was recovering from the blow. "You know what happened the last time she went looking for one of the princesses." 

All of a sudden, my grin dropped. It wasn't as if I couldn't hear him. I had perfect listening skills as every one in our town had always said.

"Yes… I know… Father…" she whispered back as she grimaced from the pain, though the last word was said with more… aggression. "She… 'wreaked havoc,' I believe."

"Are you implying something, Father?!" I shouted, letting them know that I could indeed hear them. "Are you saying that I shouldn't try to fulfill my dreams and pursue the princesses so that they can teach me _something_?!"

"My dear, they don't even exis—"

Margaret shut him up good before he even knew what he was saying.

"Th… they d-don't exist?" I asked.

By that point, my face had gone completely blank. I could already feel the tears welling up behind my shut eyelids.

Before Charlotte could say, "Emilia! Come back here!" I had already run upstairs in my desperate attempt to escape the small, insignificant complexities of family life and convince myself that the fairy tales my deceased mother had read to me every night of my past childhood were real.

We found out a week later that it was Margaret who broke off the leg of the side table.

It didn't work. At the fine age of 19, I had yet to convince myself that fairy tales truly exist. I still had my father's dark brown hair, though his has already gotten some gray strands. I still had the same plain brown eyes. I was taller than Margaret standing at five feet, eight inches. 

Although my appearances hadn't changed much, my mind did. I don't really think that I would've really liked to live a fairy tale. All of those princesses were so perfect with their peaches 'n cream complexion, perfect voices, and beautiful blonde hair.

By the way, _have_ you noticed the way that every heroine in these fairy tales has blonde hair? And a perfect singing voice? It's sickening to see that everyone is so perfect! Absolutely appalling. 

Please, tell me when to stop.

What's even more appalling is that when I was 16, my father, who was a merchant who usually traded overseas, lost all of his ships to pirates in that short year before August. Almost all of his money was lost except for a few thousand set aside especially for an emergency like this. Naturally, we had move out of our beautiful home in town, and look for another place to reside. 

Back then I had thought that the only place we could afford was an old, wasted shack in the backroads of town. 

I was so mindless.

We decided to move to a village about five miles from the outskirts of town, where we had found out there was an available cottage near the edge of the forest that had a beautiful garden awaiting. We decided to move there after Father had gone for a week to inspect it and get to know the opportunities awaiting us. We agreed upon leaving the next month.

We were leaving as planned, on September 14. We left our empty house behind, wishing that we could only have stayed there a little longer.

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Well, I thought on a lighter note, _there's always the exploring bit to do._


End file.
